Butterflies in the Sitting Room
by Mistressdickens
Summary: A brief scene between out two love birds on the eve of their wedding. An expansion of that wonderful scene in S6E3 when they are fluttering about each other in Mrs Hughes's sitting room. Spoilers and all that jazz.


**A/N: That scene between Elsie and Charles the afternoon before they are married is so sweet, but I'm sure there's a bit that's ended up on the cutting room floor. This is my take on what might go on.**

Nothing is usual this afternoon and the fact that the butler is in his pantry doing absolutely nothing but sitting and thinking is proof. He can hear the usual sounds of the household beyond his door and he wonders how they are all able to concentrate on their tasks. How have they got that self control? All he can think of is her. How her face lights up when she sees him, how she blushes when he smiles at her. He was extremely moved by her steady words about their wedding reception. He could hear the passion as she had spoken, the desire to make the day about them palpable.

He could hear the love in her voice and his heart swells with that knowledge.

When he'd proposed, she had jokingly made reference to her age, but he feels it too. That either of them should be this happy at their time of life is quite frankly incomprehensible. He still catches himself wondering if it's all a dream, or a massive practical joke.

All it takes is a glimpse of her face, a touch of her hand, the sound of her voice – even when it's not directed at him – to settle him, reassure him that all of this is real. Their happiness is assured.

The clock chiming the hour strikes four times and he is suddenly struck by the fact that this time tomorrow they will actually be married. The thought is enough to make the desire to see her practically tangible, and before he is even aware, he is on his feet and being propelled next door by a force stronger than conscious thought.

He doesn't even knock, and disturbs her as she stands in front of the mirror, and this makes him inexplicably nervous. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the next time he is witness to such attentions, they will be alone, probably in a bedroom, and be it evening or morning they will belong to each other, and all this ridiculous fluttering they are doing now will cease and he'll be able to hold her, kiss her, love her for as long as he wants.

He has been speaking, he is barely aware of what he's asked, and he doesn't care about the response either, just wants to hear her voice. He asks her if she's nervous, when what he really wants to confess to is his own tremblings – so all consuming now that his heart races and his hands take on a life of their own and twitch and wave about as if they are determined to touch her, even as his own self control holds him back.

She's sad about her dress? He can barely understand, because he honestly thinks she'd look marvellous in a sack, although he knows that's not the right thing to say. He tries to convey just how much he means it when he says he's sure she'll look wonderful. She seems to accept his conviction, it settles her at least and – oh, how he wishes he could take her in his arms and prove how very little it all matters.

But he won't. He can't. Because if he does, he's not sure he'll be able to pull back. He won't be able to leave her side, and it will be terribly unlucky. He grinds his knuckles into his palm to remind himself. He has to leave, they have to be apart for a few hours more, and so he asks her plans for the evening, so his addled mind can focus on the fact separation must come first.

It is this question that truly sets her fluttering as much as him. He can see the girlish delight in this strange hide and seek they are playing. 'They'll warn you when I'm going up, so we don't meet on the stairs!'

She giggles as she says it, and he almost decides to scupper the careful intrigue, hide on the stairs purposefully and kiss her in their shadows. But no. No, he must be a gentleman.

She can see all of this play out on his face and is delighted, and so happy, and just a touch frustrated by the fact he is so far away from her. She smiles at him as they share the humour at the idea of meeting when they aren't supposed to. This strange union of two people in the same house which puts all sorts of complications in their way, which would never happen to normal couples.

It makes her feel the special nature of their relationship and reminds her of how lucky she is. How lucky they are really. She parts her lips to say something, but there is too much in her mind to choose from and she closes it again.

But she wants to prolong the moment. She doesn't want him to leave quite yet, and so she does the only thing that seems appropriate. She raises her left hand, palm upwards, and stretches it out towards him.

He sees her gesture and is inexpressibly moved by the significance. He is reminded of that day at the beach and how it made him realise he could go another way, if she were by his side, and his face breaks into a broad smile. He takes her hand, even as his mind tells him this might be a very bad idea, and curls his long fingers about her hand.

'Did you think I needed steadying?'

Her eyes twinkle with merriment, and her face is soft, but her voice betrays her real feelings as she murmurs 'I think we both do.'

They stand like that in silence for a few moments, until she surprises him by taking a tiny step forward and looking up at him very seriously, her eyes wide as she takes him in.

'I wanted to say something, in case I forget tomorrow.'

He nods in encouragement, mesmerised by her face. Her determination is evident, as is her love and he doesn't think she could look more beautiful. He is instantly proved wrong as he heard what she has to say.

'I love you Charles. I hope you know it already, but I don't want to leave you in any doubt the eve of our marriage.'

The look on his face tells her all she needs to know. That she was right to say it and this it means the world to him. He doesn't speak, just takes a step towards her. They are close now, close enough to kiss, but they both hang back. The force of her declaration is enough to open the dam of their feelings if they are not careful. His eyes are dark, darker even than on the occasion of their first kiss and she can feel the pulse of his blood in the tips of his fingers. Or it could be her own, for assuredly her heart is racing as if she's just danced a reel.

He can see just how much she is affected and within himself he vaguely hears a cord of restraint snap. 'To hell with this' he says lowly, and brings her hand upwards, never breaking eye contact. Slowly, and very deliberately, he presses his lips to the base of her palm. He is incredibly daring, and the tip of his tongue darts out to taste her wrist. It is the work of a moment, but he knows she feels it, for he hears her gasp and has the satisfaction of seeing her eyes turn a deeper blue than they ever have before.

They are walking on quicksand. One quick move and she will be in his arms, her lips pliable beneath his, and they will have lost (or won, depending on how you look at it) the battle.

He steps back once, twice, but still maintains his hold on her hand, leisurely running his thumb across her palm.

'I should go', he says, the reluctance evident in his voice.

'You should', she agrees, wishing he would stay.

'Until tomorrow, Mrs Hughes', he says, all formality again. Then he takes the biggest risk imaginable, steps forward, places a kiss on her cheek, whispers 'I love you Elsie' and then turns on his heel and is out the door before she can even process what has happened.

She turns back towards the mirror, her fingers brushing the place where his lips fleetingly rested and smiles to her reflection. The butterflies have left the sitting room with him.

They will be married tomorrow.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

 **A/N: Oh these two. They'll be the death of me. Reviews if you are that way inclined would be wonderful.**


End file.
